Silence Isn't Always a Bad Thing
by cleverlittlegingerbatch
Summary: Lestrade is called to the Diogenes Club by persons unknown.  Once he arrives, Mycroft helps him settle in.  Sexytimes ensue!
1. Chapter 1

First - thank you to everyone who's enjoyed the stories I've written before this one. It means the world to me to see that you're reading what I write! Make sure to leave some feedback for this one - first time I've written for these two characters!

Second - I borrowed a few lines from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's story "The Greek Interpreter" where he explains about the Diogenes Club. You'll probably be able to find it.

I don't own anything having to do with these characters or the show - I just make them do what I think they would enjoy.

Lestrade is exhausted. He's just now leaving the office at - he checks his watch and groans - 1245am. Not only was there another grisly murder today, John hadn't been at the scene with Sherlock. Without him, Sherlock seemed utterly lost and unfocused, so was more caustic to Anderson and Donovan than usual. Sally had finally snapped at a particularly vicious deduction and tackled Sherlock before anyone could stop her. Both were find, except for some wounded pride and a couple of bruises Sally'd gotten in before Lestrade had hauled her off the tall, pale detective. Nightmare of paperwork, that. Now, however, he's leaving and he's got a warm bed at home and a day off tomorrow.

A sleek black car prowls out of the darkness and stops at the curb outside the building Lestrade is exiting. He gives it a curious glance, as he's certain he's the only one left in the office, but shrugs and continues down the stone steps. When he's just about to turn for home, the door opens and a slim female hand beckons him. Lestrade checks behind him, and to both sides before pointing to himself and mouthing, "Me?"

The door opens wider.

Lestrade, resigned, climbs in the. He figures if he's kidnapped, it's either Sherlock's fault or Sherlock will save him. Though he'd never admit it, Lestrade does know Sherlock is father fond of him - John mentioned this over a pint one night.

Inside the car, Lestrade is surprised to see a minibar and a startlingly attractive woman on her Blackberry - presumably the owner of the hand. She glances at him.

"There's Scotch and water in the bar. Help yourself."

"How do you know - "

"Detective Inspector Geoff Lestrade, good at football, five dogs at home. Never married. Parents still together, still hoping for grandchildren..." the woman smirks at Lestrade's face - mouth comically open, eyes bugging. "My employer makes it his business to know as much as he can about things he's... interested in." Her eyes and tone both tell Lestrade quite clearly that she's no idea why her employer is interested in _him_ of all people.

"Who is - "

"He prefers to remain anonymous at this time."

"Where - "

"You'll see when we arrive."

"Are you - "

"No, I simply have answered all of these questions before." She smirks at her phone, but Lestrade has a feelings it's directed toward him. Instead of further questioning, Lestrade scoots to the bar and makes a quick scotch and water. He's surprised at how unsurprised he is that they have his favorite scotch. The rest of the trip goes by in a silence punctuated only by fingers on a Blackberry and ice in a glass.

"Ah here we are." The woman says finally. Lestrade looks out the window. They're in an extremely posh part of London. Outside of the most utterly non-descript building Lestrade has ever seen. It fits in with its fellows on either side - brick, ivy crawling artfully along the walls, a charming wrought-iron fence outlining a meticulous lawn, and real gas lamps on either side of the door. A short walk made of flagstones connects the sidewalk with the stairs leading to the door, which gleams black in the flickering light.

Lestrade looks quizzically at his traveling companion.

"Welcome to the Diogenes Club."

Lestrade stares at her. She seems to realize that he's not impressed - or doesn't know where he is.

"There are many men in London, you know, who, from shyness, some from misanthropy, have no wish for their fellows Yet they are not averse to comfortable chairs and the latest periodicals. It is for the convenience of these that the Diogenes Club was started, and now it contains the most unsociable and unclubable men in town. No member is permitted to take the least notice of any other one. Save in the Stranger's Room, no talking is, under any circumstances, allowed." She sounds as if she's reciting a speech rehearsed ad nauseum.

Lestrade blinks. "Oh my God." he breathes. "I've _heard_ of the place but I didn't really think it _existed_!"

"Obviously it does. Now go on in. Remember - no speaking, not for any reason. Since you're not a member, you're fair game. Enjoy your evening." The door opens, a clear dismissal. Lestrade clambers out and stands on the sidewalk long after the car slithers into the night, looking at the building. Finally, he straightens his jacket and approaches the door. He hesitates, not knowing if he should just go in or knock. After a few moments, he raps quietly but purposefully on the gleaming black surface. As if they are waiting for him (which they probably were, Lestrade muses), the door swings inward silently. He steps over the threshold and the door immediately clicks shut.

Lestrade's first impression of the club is that of extreme wealth. Everything from the carpet under his feet to the wallpaper is the best money can buy. The silence is not oppressive, as he'd thought it might be. Instead, it's sort of soothing. He goes to the bar, writing down his order on a handy napkin. Once he's served, he turns, leans his elbows on the beautiful wood of the bar, and surveys the room.

Leather wing-back chairs are scattered through the large room in groups of three, four, and five, or sometimes just two on either side of a small wooden table. Magazines and newspapers are piled high on most available surfaces - tables, shelves, the mantle of the fireplace on the far wall. Well-dressed men occupy most of the chairs, reading, smoking, dozing in a couple of cases. Taking another sip of his excellent Glenfiddich and water, he lets his eyes rove to the other side of the room. More leather armchairs, more expensively tailored men... Lestrade chokes on his drink and blinks his eyes several times to make sure he's seeing correctly.

In front of several of the chairs, men are kneeling. From his place at the bar, Lestrade can see that several of the men in the chairs have their trousers open and their cocks down the throats of the men on the floor. As he watches, one man in a beautiful Westwood suit drags the thin man at his feet onto his lap, kissing him. Lestrade looks away, having a feeling he knows where this is going.

Is this what this club is really for? he thinks, trembling. Rich, powerful men come here for anonymous sex? Silent sex? Lestrade's thoughts are whirling and he's never been so incredibly turned on in his entire life. His blood is singing in his veins and he feels a little dizzy. He drains his glass and turns to order another. When he turns again, a tall, sort of ginger man is standing in front of his. The other men in the room might be well-dressed, but this man also exudes class and sophistication. Lestrade can practically smell the blue blood coursing through his long limbs.

When Lestrade's eyes reach the stranger's face, a sardonic ginger eyebrow is lifted. Lestrade realizes he's just given this man a serious once-over and ducks his head, embarrassed. A smooth, manicured hand lifts his chin - Lestrade lifts his eyes to see the most suggestive smile he's ever seen and eyes full of filthy, filthy promises. The man tips his head towards the back of the club. Lestrade's heart leaps in his chest and his cock is hard as steel. He nods, and the mystery man's face explodes in a warm smile.

They pass several men being serviced in the armchairs, but Lestrade's mystery man - Lestrade decides to call him Joe, for lack of anything better - pulls him insistently to a door Lestrade hadn't noticed before. It leads to a tight but lavish hallway, with doors every few feet. In the utter silence, Lestrade can hear what's going on behind the doors, and it only gets him hotter.

Joe leads them into a room about halfway down the hallway. The flips a switch, and a dim, romantic light floods the room. Just like the rest of the miraculous place, it's furnished with only top-quality furniture - mahogany end tables, an overstuffed armchair, a queen-size bed with a brocade duvet. Fresh flowers adorn a small table set between two plain but masterfully crafted wooden chairs. Lestrade gapes in astonishment. Joe chuckles behind him - it's a rich, sexy sound and heat bursts through Lestrade's entire body. Blushing, Lestrade quickly shuts his mouth and shucks off his jacket. When he looks around for a hook or closet, Joe holds out one of those beautifully manicured hands, in which Lestrade places his (old, rather threadbare) jacket. Joe throws it casually over the back of the armchair and gives Lestrade a slow once-over. Boldly, Lestrade watches and catches the appearance of Joe's tongue wetting his full bottom lip. Unable to stop, Lestrade strides over to him, catches his face in his hands, and kisses him.

It is a brilliant first kiss, as these things go. Their lips move harmoniously, neither fighting for dominance this early in the game. Joe's hand smoothes up Lestrade's back and slides into the silvering hair at the nape of his neck, his other hand resting on Lestrade's hip. Lestrade's hands drift further into the gingery hair, grabbing on lightly. He deepens the kiss, touching his tongue lightly to the other man's lips. This tiny action seems to break a damn inside of Joe - suddenly, his hands are everywhere and his tongue is mapping the roof of Lestrade's mouth. Lestrade moans at the onslaught and pushes Joe's gorgeous jacket off his broad shoulders. It drops unceremoniously to the floor. Both men are working frantically at buttons and a tie and a waistcoat and finally they're skin to skin.

Lestrade pulls back, panting. He smoothes his hands over Joe's face, thumbs running over cheekbones so prominent they cast their own shadows. He sighs, thinking of his own daft-looking face, then pulls his mystery man over to the bed. Together they remove the duvet, and Lestrade pushes Joe gently back. Settling above him, Lestrade begins to kiss Joe's hairline, down to his long nose and brushing over his lips. He moves down and presses his lips to the pale neck, laving his tongue over the pulse point. This wrings a slight moan from the man below him, and Lestrade sucks lightly. A louder moan this time. Bolder now, Lestrade sweeps his hands over soft shoulders and down slightly muscled arms. His lips burn a trail of fire down Joe's throat to his chest. Lestrade seeks out a nipple, which causes its owner to stiffen, then thread his fingers through Lestrade's hair, effectively keeping him there. Lestrade tongues the small bud of flesh into harness, then bites softly - a sharp gasp from above is his reward. After a quick kiss, he moves his mouth to the other nipple, but keeps his fingers brushing over the one he's just left, making sure it remains sensitive.

Joe is panting from the attention. His hips are thrusting upward slightly with each breath, but Lestrade continues his slow, sinuous onslaught.

"Mycroft."

Lestrade lifts his head from the nipple he's currently suckling. He raises an eyebrow.

"My name. It's Mycroft."

"Geoff."

"Pleasure. Now please..." Joe - Mycroft, Lestrade corrects himself - arches himself up into Lestrade. Both men moan at the contact. Lestrade gives one nipple a rather severe twist and bites down on the other at the same time. Mycroft keens his pleasure and pushes gently against Lestrade's head, pushing him further down his lithe body. Lestrade complies, kissing and tonguing his way over Mycroft's soft belly, stopping at his navel to dip his tongue in. Mycroft twitches and snorts with laughter. Experimentally, Lestrade touches the tip of his tongue to the outer rim of the indentation, slowly working his way around. Mycroft tries to wrest his body away, giggling, but Lestrade is stronger and holds him down, pressing more kisses in a spiral away from Mycroft's belly button.

He runs a finger underneath the waistband of Mycroft's silky, tailored trousers, raising his eyebrows, impressed, when he can feel the head of Mycroft's cock under his fingers. The other man is hard, precum already leaking out. He pushes the button slowly from its hole, eyes on Mycroft's face the entire time. When he receives no sign to stop, Lestrade quickly tugs the zipper and begins to edge trousers and pants down Mycroft's hips. Mycroft arches off the bed in assistance, and Lestrade pulls everything off in one smooth go. Standing at the foot of the bed, he peels what feels like silk socks off of Mycroft's long feet. Once they're bare, Lestrade takes one big toe in his mouth and sucks gently. Mycroft's eyes fly open, goggling at Lestrade, who grins around the toe and wraps his tongue all the way around. With a groan, Mycroft closes his eyes and one hand drifts to his aching dick. Lestrade swats it away, now running his tongue up Mycroft's calf, stopping every so often to lave circles around a particular point. His fingers mirror the path on the other leg, creeping ever closer to the particular part Mycroft so obviously needs touched.

Finally, Lestrade reaches the apex of Mycroft's thighs with both tongue and fingers. Mycroft is shaking with effort of keeping his hands off his cock - hands which are currently fisted tightly in the Egyptian cotton sheets. Lestrade palms Mycroft's balls, weighing and fondling them, swiping a thumb across the thin skin. A whimper comes from above when his tongue retraces the path. Achingly slow, Lestrade flattens his tongue against the base of Mycroft's thick cock and runs it all the way to the weeping tip. Mycroft shudders and bucks, but Lestrade keeps one large hand on each hip, anchoring him to the bed. After repeating this once more, Lestrade opens his lips of the head of Mycroft's cock, and slides oh so slowly down, inch by inch until it hits the back of his throat. Relaxing his muscles, Lestrade swallows him still further, and his triumph is solidified by the surprised yelp he hears torn from Mycroft. Pale blue eyes find his, and Lestrade can read the question there. He nods. Mycroft lifts his hips again, Lestrade relaxes again. Seeing that Lestrade is willing and able, Mycroft pumps harder and a little faster, fucking the older man's throat. His breath is coming in ragged blasts and he's so close now. He unwinds his hands from the sheets and shoves them in Lestrade's hair, thrusting becoming erratic. The gagging noises only spur him faster. Finally with a cry and an almighty thrust upward, Mycroft comes, semen pouring out of his cock and into Lestrade's mouth. He swallows every bit, savoring it, sucking softly through the aftershocks.

Now it's his turn.

He crawls up Mycroft's body, planting kisses randomly until he reaches lips. Mycroft smiles languidly, kissing him softly. Lestrade quirks an eyebrow, and Mycroft's smile turns sultry. He flips them so Lestrade is on the bottom. Then he begins is thorough examination of every erogenous zone Lestrade knows he had - and some he wasn't aware of, like the tiny spot just under his left pectoral that causes him to jump practically off the bed. After this, Mycroft lets out his little huff of laughter. Lestrade blushes, but Mycroft clicks his tongue and his eyes smoulder. There's another spot about an inch below his right knee that, when licked and tongued, causes his cock to harden to outrageous proportions.

"_Please_..." Lestrade whimpers after Mycroft returns to his knee for the third time. Mycroft send him a wicked grin as he clambers off the bed. A tub of complimentary Vaseline rests in the drawer of one of the bedside tables, and Mycroft pops it open with ease born of practice. Jealousy flares up in Lestrade of the men who were there for all that practice, but he quickly tamps it down as he watches Mycroft coat two fingers of his right hands with the grease, then insert those same two fingers into his arse.

Lestrade nearly comes right then and there.

Mycroft makes rather a show of preparing himself, not that Lestrade is complaining. He takes his cock in hand as he watches Mycroft shoves those long, aristocratic fingers into himself. Eventually, Mycroft decides he's ready and moves back over to the bed. He swats away Lestrade's hand and kneels, one leg on either side of Lestrade's hips. Watching Lestrade's face like a hawk, he penetrates himself slowly. Lestrade feels his cock push through the tight ring of muscle and knows he's just about there. Suddenly, Mycroft sits all the way down and Lestrade bows off the bed like his spine is made of elastic. A groan of utter ecstasy rips out of his throat. So tight and so hot and so ready... Lestrade begins thrusting upward, hard. Years of policework have made his legs strong and he uses them to the utmost now. Mycroft leans back, his hands on the bed behind him, face a mask of passion and pleasure. Lestrade wipes a hand from neck to cock, feeling it begin to grow hard again in his hand. Mycroft moans loudly as Lestrade starts to pump his cock in tandem with his thrusts.

Lestrade can see when Mycroft begins to get uncomfortable in this position. He pushes the other man off his cock and rolls up, pushing Mycroft onto all fours. Mycroft stretches like a cat, getting down on his elbows and thrusting his wanton little arse into the air. Lestrade gives it a sound smack before thrusting his cock back inside. Thrusting shallowly, he reaches around and takes Mycroft's cock in his hand again, pulling and twisting. The other man's breathing tells him he'll be coming again shortly, and Lestrade means to join him. Taking a hand off the hard member, he finds a nipple and tweaks it roughly. He can hear Mycroft chanting "Yes yes yes" under his breath and grins. As soon as he feels his balls tighten and his orgasm draw closer, he grabs both of Mycroft's hips to anchor himself and pumps harder than ever. Flesh slaps against flesh and they're both moaning each other's names and Lestrade is so incredibly close -

Just as he tips over the blinding edge of orgasm, Mycroft bellows his release and coats the expensive sheets in his come. This causes him to clench around Lestrade's cock in a death grip, milking out his own orgasm. Lestrade thrusts a few more times, riding out his orgasm.

I just had sex with an utter stranger, he thinks, pulling out and collapsing. And I loved every single moment of it.

Mycroft pulls him into his arms, settling Lestrade's head on his shoulder. They lay together as their sweat cools and their breath slows. Every now and again the kiss, just for the hell of it. Too soon, Mycroft pulls away and begins to dress. Lestrade copies him, and within minutes they are back in the common room. Mycroft ushers Lestrade to the door and opens it for him. Lestrade sees the same black car as before waiting for him. Just as he's leaving, Mycroft pulls him back for a long, searingly hot kiss. When Lestrade is ready to drag him back to the room for found two, Mycroft releases him and presses his card into Lestrade's hand. He smiles and waves him off.

In the car, Lestrade looks at the card in his hand and bursts into hysterical giggles. Two words are printed in black ink on the fine white cardstock:

_Mycroft Holmes_


	2. Chapter 2

Lestrade leans against the closed door of his flat, grinning like a girl who'd just gotten her first kiss. Sighing happily, he stops by the kitchen on the way to his bedroom just to check if he's any lager left. He finds one way in the back, opens it, and takes a long drag. Leaning against the counter, he breathes deeply and smells Mycroft on his clothes. His grin gets wider as he fishes out the business card.

_Mycroft Holmes_.

Oh God. How will he ever be able to look Sherlock in the face again?

A hysterical giggle bubbles up from his gut and he snorts, thinking of the face Sherlock would make if he ever found out he'd fucked his brother - and planned to do so again. Somehow.

The laughter dies on Lestrade's lips as he realizes he has no way of actually contacting Mycroft. His card only has his name on it, so that's no help. The woman in the car didn't give him a name, and he could hardly ask anyone at the Diogenes Club for a list of it's members and their contact information. Asking Sherlock is absolutely out of the question. A man like that wouldn't be found just by a Google search. Lestrade's shoulders slump as he finds that he is at the mercy of Mycroft and dark car. Surely after sex that mind-blowing, Mycroft will want him again? Brooding, Lestrade finishes his lager and slumps off to bed.

Lady Gaga wakes him, which is odd. He doesn't remember putting that song on his mobile. He groans, making a grab for the bedside table where he thinks he put the damn thing but only succeeds in knocking over a water glass and a picture frame.

"Bollocks." he mutters. He heaves himself into a sitting position, rubbing his eyes, Finally he locates the source of the noise - Donovan has been calling every five minutes for the past hour. He sits in bed, willing himself to call her back and not just sit in bed all day, pining. The decision is made for him when "Born This Way" starts playing again.

"Lestrade." His voice is furry with sleep and a little sore from the moaning last night.

"Where the hell have you been?" Donovan demands. Lestrade closes his eyes - her tone is a touch too caustic for being this early.

"Late night." Lestrade rasps, then clears his throat.

"We need you. Freak's gonna have a field day with this and I don't want to deal with him by myself." Donovan grumbles. He can hear Anderson groaning in the background.

"Where?" Lestrade grunts. He ends the call as soon as possible, needing a shower before he can leave the house. Dressed in trousers and a shirt that both particularly show off his assets, he hails a cab. When he arrives at the scene, Sherlock is already there, along with Donovan and Anderson. Dark looks on the faces of the latter two tell him that Sherlock's already found out everything he needs for now and has fallen back on his favorite past time of baiting them. He'll never understand why they always rise to the bait.

"Where's John?" Lestrade asks by way of greeting. He can't quite look the taller man in the eye. If he does, he's sure he'll blurt out what happened last night and beg Sherlock to take him to Mycroft.

Sherlock's lips thin in a grimace of annoyance. "Called in to the surgery. Nasty flu epidemic at present, I'm told."

"Shame. What can you tell me?" Lestrade gestures to the mangled body in front of them, lying spread-eagled on the warehouse floor. As Sherlock races through all of his deductions, Lestrade is only half-listening. Instead, he's watching Sherlock closely, seeing the resemblance between him and his sibling. Seems strange, someone like Sherlock Holmes having a family. Before now, Lestrade's never really thought about where the detective came from, his childhood, days at uni. Come to think of it, what was Mycroft like as a boy? Were they close then? Something obviously had happened to cause a rift between them, as Sherlock hadn't so much as mentioned a family, much less a brother. What about their parents? Aunts, uncles -

"Am I boring you, Detective Inspector?" A sharp voice penetrates Lestrade's musings.

Lestrade starts violently. Sherlock is sneering at him, obviously peeved that he's being clever and no one is paying attention. Anderson is whispering behind his hand to Donovan, who's giggling. Lestrade blushes furiously at being caught mooning.

"Late night." he mumbles, looking away from Sherlock's gray stare. "Need me for anything else, or can you tell us where to pick up the guy who did this?"

"It was a woman, Lestrade. I mentioned that more than once. There's lipstick -"

"Fine, Sherlock. Where can we find her?"

Sherlock fixes Lestrade with another look, but this one is different. This one is calculating, deducing, seeing far too much. How can John stand being at the end of this look so often? Lestrade attempts to keep his face expressionless and his mind blank. After a few moments, Sherlock's eyes widen and he breathes a soft "Ah." A smug looks flits across his face, and then he's gone, tossing the most likely location of the killer over his shoulder. Lestrade is stunned for a moment, but then he instinctively goes into police mode, shouting orders to Anderson and Donovan and whoever else is there.

The killer is in custody not an hour later, exactly where Sherlock said she'd be hiding out. Lestrade will never quite get over his admiration of the consulting detective's talents - not that he'd ever say so out loud. Lestrade finally gets a bite to eat and a cup of tea back at the office - mountains of paperwork to fill out after the murder, plus various other projects to be taken care of. The work serves as an excellent distraction, and Lestrade finds himself not thinking of Mycroft for a full five minutes at one point. However, the sky begins to darken and the office empties, and Lestrade finds himself alone once more. The silence only reminds him of the Diogenes Club, and he feels his cock stir just at the thought of the place. Wouldn't he love to get Mycroft in one of those leather chairs, get on his knees in front of him and take his cock into his throat...

Lestrade is fully hard now. It's late enough that he knows he's utterly alone in the office once again. Without a second thought, he unzips and releases his aching cock under his desk. Leaning back in his chair, he closes his eyes and tries to relive last night as much as possible. As he remembers Mycroft's wickedly talented tongue on his cock, he hand moves faster and just as he's about to come, his mobile goes.

"Goddammit!" he growls, grabbing the offending object. The caller ID reads "Blocked" and his hearts leaps. Could it be...?

"Lestrade." he answers.

"Please meet me outside in 10 minutes. Be decent." It's not Mycroft, but Lestrade does recognize the voice of the woman in the car from the night before. The call is disconnected before he can say anything. Excitement floods his stomach, and he crams his softened cock back into his trousers, shuts down his computer, drops a report on his superior's desk, then goes downstairs. He's determined to be exactly on time. Standing just inside the front doors and away from the windows, Lestrade straightens his jacket, smoothes his trousers and tries to flatten his salt-and-pepper hair. Exactly ten minutes after receiving the call, he exits the building to find the same - or an identical - car waiting for him at the curb, door waiting open.

The woman isn't there tonight, but Lestrade barely notices. He's too excited at the prospect of seeing Mycroft again. As soon as his door closes, the car slides elegantly away into traffic. From what he can see, he's not being taken to the club again tonight. Instead, they head in the opposite direction, towards Westminster Abbey. Lestrade dozes slightly, lulled by the expensive purr of the engine.

Their destination is a small house, not unlike John and Sherlock's on Baker Street. Lestrade only has a second to look at it before the car door is opened by the uniformed chauffeur. Clumsily, Lestrade clambers out, looking around. He catches the chauffer's eye, and he tips his head towards the closest house. Lestrade nods his thanks and the car whisks away. Like the Diogenes Club, the facade of what Lestrade assumes to be Mycroft's home is incredibly unassuming - no one walking past would look twice. To Lestrade, however, it is the most beautiful sight he's seen all day. When he raises his hand to knock on the door, he finds his hands are trembling. He grins foolishly when the door swings open, but it's not Mycroft.

_Of course not. _Lestrade muses. _A man like that wouldn't open his own door._

The butler - what else could the distinguished-looking older man in the tuxedo be - leads Lestrade through a small but exquisite house to a closed door.

"Mister Holmes awaits." the man's voice is deep and has a very posh accent. Lestrade suddenly feels boyish and gauche next to him.

"Ah, thanks." Lestrade stammers. The butler inclines his head in what Lestrade takes to be an acknowledgement, then turns on his heel and slinks away. Lestrade stares after him for a moment, then realizes that Mycroft is just behind those doors and pushes them open with more force than was really necessary.

The room, like it's occupant, is extravagant but tasteful, expensive but classy and very, very Mycroft. In the swift, rather disinterested glance Lestrade gives the room, he sees brocade couches, mahogany tables, Tiffany lamps and a black marble fireplace. In front of the fireplace, Mycroft sits like a king in a leather armchair - _just like the ones at the Club_, Lestrade thinks wildly - with a small buffet set out. Somehow he knew Lestrade hadn't eaten much that day and clearly wants more than just sex. Lestrade lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He's standing stock-still in the doorway, a little overwhelmed by the decadence and the man himself.

Mycroft looks up when the doors open, and his face is swathed in a smile that could light up a Christmas tree. He rises with fluid grace and makes his way to Lestrade in quick strides. Lestrade pushes the doors closed without taking his eyes off his lover. Mycroft doesn't stop until Lestrade is pressed up against those very doors and they're breathing each other's air.

"I didn't know if I'd ever see you again," Lestrade whispers, eyes closed, attempting to memorize the intoxicating scent of Mycroft Holmes. He smells of the fireplace and Parliament and power and class.

"Waiting until this evening was excrutiating." Mycroft murmurs, nuzzling Lestrade's hair.

"I thought about you constantly. Even at the crime scene."

"Surely Sherlock noticed something different about you."

"I think he did, but he didn't say anything. Now please kiss me. I can't stand - " The rest of Lestrade's sentence is cut off by Mycroft's luscious lips. Lestrade groans into his mouth, fisting his hands in the pinstripe waistcoat. Mycroft's hands are on Lestrade's hips, pulling him closer, as if he wants to crawl inside. Lestrade cups Mycroft's face and breaks the kiss to feather his lips over the younger man's face. Both are breathing heavily, content for the moment just to press against each other, reassuring themselves that the other is real and there. Suddenly, Lestrade's stomach gives an embarrassingly loud rumble. He blushes (_twice in one day,_ he thinks) but Mycroft only chuckles and leads him to the fireplace.

"Tea? Or something stronger?" Mycroft asks, all gracious host. Lestrade nods absently, gaping at the spread before him. Steak and kidney pie, beef with hot white horseradish sauce, pork with sweet apple sauce, plus roast potatoes, carrots, brussel sprouts...

"I wasn't sure what your favourite was, so I just... got all of it." Mycroft says sheepishly. He looks so unsure of himself that Lestrade sits on his lap, wraps his arms around his neck and kisses him soundly.

"It's perfect. Seriously. Thank you." Lestrade whispers against Mycroft's temple. Mycroft pulls away and has that smile on his face again that warms Lestrade right down to his toes. He takes a bit of everything while Mycroft sips a cup of tea out of a bone china cup.

"Long day?" Mycroft inquires after Lestrade has assuaged his hunger.

"Terrible. Woke up to a murder, John wasn't at the scene so Sherlock wreaked havoc until I got there, then mountains of paperwork after we caught the killer." Lestrade is ensconced in an identical armchair across from Mycroft's. Both men have abandoned their shoes and jackets, Mycroft his waistcoat. Lestrade is feeling nicely full, and is now ruminating on his fantasy from earlier, in the office. His cock is doing the same.

Mycroft, of course, has noticed. He's spread his legs rather further apart than is strictly necessary, and Lestrade can barely avert his eyes. Mycroft makes sure to hang a hand so close to his crotch it's almost brushing his own cock, elbow propped on the arm of the beautiful chair. When he finally catches Lestrade's eyes, they're smoldering. He cocks his head in invitation. The movement is hardly finished when Lestrade is on his knees in front of Mycroft's chair, his hands on the other man's thighs, eyes trained his cock. Mycroft tips his hips up slightly, asking Lestrade to continue - and oh, does he.

In moments, Lestrade has Mycroft's semi-hard cock out of his trousers and in his mouth. His supremely talented tongue has Mycroft fully hard and straining in minutes. Mycroft unbuttons his shirt and wrenches it off, flinging it somewhere over the back of the chair. Lestrade runs his left hand over the newly exposed skin - his right is busy pumping the base of Mycroft's dick and fondling the delicate skin of his balls.

"Yes, Geoff, _yes_." Mycroft hisses, arching into Lestrade's throat. Lestrade relaxes and quickens his pace, but Mycroft pulls him off. "No, no, my dear - I want my cock inside _you_ tonight." he whispers against Lestrade's lips, ending with a quick bite and a swipe of tongue. Lestrade's cock jumps at the thought. Mycroft's eyes blaze. "Clothes off. Now."

Lestrade leaps off Mycroft's lap, breaking the zip of his trousers in his haste. He's peeling off his socks when Mycroft pounces on him. Lestade is on his back with Mycroft leaning over him, pupils wide with desire, sweat from the fire and their activities starting to bead on his brow. Without thinking about it, Lestrade leans up to lick the sweat off. Mycroft blinks, then falls on his lips like a man parched. Hands are everywhere, trying to touch every inch of skin. Mycroft moves from Lestrade's lips to his neck, nipping the sensitive spots, loving the gasps and whimpers he receives when he finds them.

Gently, Mycroft turns Lestrade onto his stomach. Lestrade is sure he knows what's coming, but Mycroft has other ideas. Scooting father down Lestrade's body, he dips his tongue into the dip just above the crack of Lestrade's arse. A shudder runs through the detective inspector's body, so Mycroft licks again, eliciting the same response. He files this away for future reference. This time he spreads Lestrade's firm cheeks apart, fingering the little hole lightly. Lestrade is panting, jerking his arse toward Mycroft's fingers, desperate for something, _anything_. Mycroft obliges by leaning down and tonguing the hole, dipping it in, exploring. He's never heard a noise quite like the one Lestrade makes under his ministrations.

"Fuck Mycroft you exquisite bastard if you don't fuck me I'll - "

"You'll what, love?" Mycroft croons, delicately sliding a finger inside Lestrade's arse. "Arrest me? Set my brother on me? Leave me?"

"Not that." Lestrade pants. "Never that."

"Smashing." Mycroft smiles and inserts a second finger and crooks it just there -

"Now you pretentious prick! I want your cock!" Lestrade shouts when Mycroft brushes his fingers over Lestrade's prostate a few more times.

"No need to shout." Mycroft forces his voice to remain cool and aloof - in reality, his cock is screaming at him and it's taking all his willpower not to sink balls deep in this man. He wants to prolong this after their hurried union the night previous. To this end, he kisses his way up Lestrade's back, from arse to shoulders, though he can't resist rubbing his dripping dick in the cleft of Lestade's arse a few times.

Finally - _finally_ - he reaches for the lube he placed conveniently near his armchair and slick up his cock. It feels like it's going to explode at any moment, so he tries not to touch himself as he lubes a couple of fingers and slides them in, preparing Lestrade.

"Please _please_ Mycroft... I need your dick inside me..." Lestrade is begging. It turns Mycroft on more than anything he's ever experienced. Another piece of data to be filed away.

"Now my love now..." he hisses as he slides his cock inside the other man. When he's in to the hilt, he hesitates, waiting to make sure Lestrade is comfortable. After a few moments, Lestrade pushes backwards and Mycroft takes this to mean that he's ready for more. _Thank God, _Mycroft thinks as he begins thrusting in and out. "God you feel good, Geoff. So tight around me..."

"Harder, please, Mycroft. Fuck me!" Lestrade keens, pushing up onto his elbows for more leverage. An obliging soul, Mycroft gives Lestrade what he asks for.

He snaps his hips forward viciously at same time that he coils a hand around Lestrade's long cock. Lestrade yelps and tries to fuck the hand around him, but Mycroft has a vice-like grip on his hip. Mycroft is relentless, keeping up a rythym from both sides. Lestrade is groaning wantonly, shamlessly, and lust coils hot in Mycroft's belly. He likes this feeling of power, and he fucks harder at his policeman.

Lestrade has never felt so _full_ and so gloriously wanted. He loves the feel of Mycroft's cock in his arse, fucking hard and fast. Even more he loves when Mycroft leans down to lick the sweat off of his spine and gives Lestrade's cock a forceful tug which is almost too much. He squeezes his eyes shut and gives himself over to the sensations. He feels his balls tighten and just has time to yell out that he's coming before he's doing just that all over the carpet and Mycroft's hand. Behind him, Mycroft throws his head back wildly and thrusts a few more times before he joins Lestrade in oblivion. His hips move erratically a few times as Lestrade's arse milks him through his orgasm, but then he collapses on the floor in front of the fire, curling into Lestrade's arms. He settles his head on Lestrade's lightly furred chest, listening to his heart and breathing slow to a normal rate. Both are smiling, high on amazing sex.

"Stay." Mycroft whispers, tracing patterns on Lestrade's abdomen. He holds his breath until Lestrade nods.


	3. Chapter 3

[Author's Note: I wanted to take a second to thank everyone who's read, commented, favorited, _everything_. I adore this pairing and am really enjoying writing them. Unfortunately, there's no sex in this chapter, just a fair dollop of angst. Enjoy and please let me know what you think!]

No. No no no no no _no_ this was NOT supposed to be how -

Lestrade forces his mind to shut up as the car speeds through the damp, winding streets of London towards the explosion on the outskirts of town. He grits his teeth, feeling as though they're going in circles, never getting closer to the site. He knew Sherlock had set up an appointment with this freak and Lestrade also assumed that John would be there with him. Now that exact location is on fire and God only knows what might happen before they can make it - _stop it_, he thinks roughly. Everything will be fine. Sherlock probably deduced something he wasn't supposed to and this Moriarty person got upset blew up the whole pool along with everyone in it. Realizing he won't be able to stop this macabre line of thinking until he knows exactly what's happened, Lestrade grits his teeth and wills the car to go faster through the winding streets of London.

He and Mycroft had been enjoying an extremely pleasant meal at Mycroft's flat, and it was turning out to be a very promising evening, shagging-wise, when Lestrade's mobile went. The good thing about having a - what, lover? boyfriend? fuck buddy? - in the government is that he doesn't complain when Lestrade has to check a text or take a call in the middle of a date. When Lestrade saw the SOS999 text that Sally had sent, his eyebrows had flown into his hairline. This was an emergency of epic proportions, like Westminster Abbey being taken over by terrorists. He'd texted quickly back, then Sally had called to fill him in. Within moments, he was throwing on his clothes haphazardly, explaining quickly to Mycroft that he was needed at once. No need to worry him...

Now, however, Lestrade wishes Mycroft were with him. The elder Holmes can be a very calming presence when the situation necessitates it. Lestrade is sure Mycroft will find out about Sherlock's little adventure, but again, there's no need for him to be at the actual scene. This decision is partly for Lestrade's own peace of mind - he's still not entirely sure where he and Mycroft stand, and a potentially emotionally charged setting is not the place for them to find out.

Finally the car pulls up to the scene and all thoughts of Mycroft are quickly shoved out of the detective inspector's mind.

It's a disaster. Of course it is - a bloody bomb went off. Lestrade tears out of the car, frantically searching for Sherlock and John. People and officers and firemen are milling everywhere, in the way - _there_. By the ambulance. Sherlock is in another shock blanket and looks like he needs it this time. As Lestrade gets closer, he sees that John is curled on Sherlock's lap, his face buried in the detective's long neck. Sherlock's arms are clutching the smaller man, rocking him. A cold shock goes through Lestrade and his limbs suddenly feel leaden. John can't be -

Sherlock either feels Lestrade's gaze or hears him coming, because when he looks up, their eyes meet. Somehow, they communicate that John is not dead, just injured and in utter shock. Lestrade glances at the ambulance techs - they look irritable, which can only mean that Sherlock is being a nuisance and not letting them do their jobs.

"They tried to take him." Sherlock announces when Lestrade is within earshot. There's an open wound on Sherlock's temple, but he's obviously made no move to wipe away the blood. He seems to be too intent on John - intent enough that he won't let anyone else close to the doctor.

"Yes, Sherlock, that's their job. They need to see to him."

"_I've_ seen to him. He'll be fine."

"You aren't a medical professional, Sherlock! He'd want another doctor - "

"Do you mean to insinuate that I do not have his well-being at the forefront of my mind?" Sherlock's pale eyes narrow, and he clutches John closer. A muffled moan comes from the doctor. Sherlock's eyes snap to the man in his arms and his expression softens. Lestrade has to work to stop himself from gaping at the change - Sherlock is looking tenderly down at John Watson, _listening_ to him.

"Sherlock, let them look at me. It's okay." John's voice is stiff with pain, but is gentle all the same. Reluctantly, Sherlock helps John to his feet and supports him to the ambulance where a tech immediately wraps John in a shock blanket of his very own. Sherlock hovers, always within arm's reach. Finally, John pulls him down next to him, pressing a kiss to the uninjured temple.

Grinning, Lestrade turns away, looking for Sally. He needs information on the status of this Moriarty person and anyone else who was in the pool at the time of the explosion. The first person he sees, however, is decidedly not who he was expecting.

"Mycroft? What are you doing here? Is everything - " Lestrade stops at the look in his - lover's? partner's? boyfriend's? - eyes. They're cold and angry and unlike anything Lestrade has ever seen.

"You knew that my brother was in trouble and yet you left me behind with no information whatsoever. Did you honestly think I wouldn't know what was going on?" Mycroft searches Lestrade's face. "How could you leave me out of this?"

Lestrade has never heard Mycroft's voice this soft, this vulnerable. The other man always has the slick veneer of the politician, the competent businessman, the high-ranking official on. It softens slightly when he's in bed, when Lestrade is meticulously, methodically taking him apart, but it's never been like this. Lestrade has betrayed him.

"Mycroft, I didn't... I didn't want you to worry without knowing all the facts - "

"I got them before you even arrived here. I already know more than anyone else here, including my brother." Mycroft interrupts hotly, though his voice is still quiet.

"Oh yeah I should've just asked you to take care of it, let my team take risks while I stayed in your flat. I'm their boss, Mycroft. I can't - _won't_ - let them do anything I wouldn't do myself." Lestrade hisses back, temper rising. Mycroft looks surprised for a moment, then his face settles into it's habitual bland mask.

"Perhaps I should then leave you to your duties, Detective Inspector." Mycroft sweeps his icy glare up and down Lestrade, then turns on his heel and disappears back into his sleek black car.

It's gone before Lestrade can even react.


	4. Chapter 4

(A/N: Apologies for taking so long to update this - I've been working on another fic and it sort of took over my brain for a while. However, these two wouldn't let me give up on this story. Thank you for sticking with me, and I hope you enjoy this installment.)

Mycroft sits in stunned silence after Lestrade has fled the room. For a few moments he thinks his... Lestrade will return for him, let him know what's happening. Heart pounding, he practically wills Geoff to return, to trust him, to include him. It's not often the subject of the will of Mycroft Holmes isn't bent, so when it does happen, it's a particularly intense experience. Minutes pass and still the door remains resolutely closed. Mycroft grits his teeth, lifts his chin, and shuts a different door - the one to the man who just ran out. He texts Anthea and is, as always, grateful she's never far from her phone. Trying not to think about the lives that hang in the balance of this next phone call, he dials a number that legally doesn't exist.

"Mycroft Holmes. I was wondering when you'd call." Mycroft winces at the cheery, Irish-accented voice.

"Mr. Moriarty. I hope you've enjoyed your stay in London. Is there anything that I can say, or possibly give, that will keep you from carrying out this... plan of yours?" Mycroft puts on his very best politician voice, the one he saves for prime ministers, presidents, dictators - the dangerous ones in particular.

"Worried for baby brother are we?" Moriarty taunts - Mycroft can almost see the manic glint in the man's dark eyes and suppresses a shudder.

"Constantly." Mycroft quips.

"I'd worry less about him than his little pet, love." Mycroft's heart drops into his stomach. Though he'd never admit it to anyone, he's grown quite fond of John Watson and is, frankly, amazed that Sherlock has let the man so far into his life and confidence. He swallows nervously, willing the shake out of his voice.

"What, pray tell, does he have to do with your spat with my brother?"

A cold giggle slithers through the phone and sends a shiver down Mycroft's spine.

"Watch and see, lovely." The line goes dead, but the echo of manic laughter lingers in the office. Mycroft gently places the phone on the desk, crosses his legs and steeples his fingers under his chin. His brain feels foggy and slow - sentiment for his brother getting in the way of rational thinking. Moments later, his phone chimes with an incoming email. Anthea, bless her, has sent him a document outlining everything she could find out about Moriarty's plan for the evening. As he reads it, an overwhelming desire to call Geoff - _Lestrade_... _first names provide more intimacy_ - and let him know everything he's found out floods through his body. A good policeman though he is, Scotland Yard can't compete with Mycroft's contacts. Mycroft clamps down on the thought and banishes it to the furthest reaches of his subconscious. Caring is not an advantage.

As soon as he's done reading the email, he strides out of his office, calling his driver and asking for his car to be pulled around. He texts Sherlock but gets no answer; Mycroft is unsurprised by this, but a ball of fear has taken up residence in the pit of his stomach. When he tries to phone John Watson, it goes straight to voicemail. This worries him more than silence from Sherlock. John is never far from his phone, even when he's at the surgery. The ball blooms and Mycroft feels sick with anxiety. He exits the building just as the car is sliding smoothly up to the curb. The custom-made watch on his wrist tells him he has 13 minutes to get to the warehouse before Moriarty puts his plan into motion.

He also knows he won't make it there in time.

On his way down to the exit, he'd gone over every route from his office to the warehouse he could think of and none of them would take less than 16.74 minutes. If only Geoff had not gone alone, if Mycroft had run after him, if he'd taken less time to worry about other people... none of those things had happened and now Mycroft has to deal with the consequences. He watches London slip by his windows as he counts down the seconds, starts a bit when his driver takes an unexpected turn, but otherwise feels the chill of the phone call with Moriarty creep through his bones.

They are 3 minutes away when the explosion occurs. Mycroft hears the low rumble and closes his eyes in defeat. He hadn't been fast enough. Moriarty had beaten him. His brother is most likely dead, along with John Watson, an innocent man who'd gotten caught up with the wrong people. Still, he needs to be at the scene. Next of kin, and all that.

As soon as he arrives, he knows something has shifted. The plan didn't go quite right. He searches through the sea of policeman to the two faces he needs to see - Sherlock and John. They are sitting on the back of an ambulance, both wrapped in bright orange blankets. As he watches, John stretches up and presses a kiss to Sherlock's temple. Mycroft smiles - not a sardonic politician's smile, but the smile of a man who is truly happy for another human being. It is, unfortunately, short-lived when he sees the silver-haired man standing near the couple. As the car comes to a halt, Mycroft arranges his face into what he hopes is a passive, uninterested expression. This is exactly what Lestrade sees when he looks over, except for the eyes - even Mycroft can't control the expression in those. They're cold, angry, unforgiving.

"Mycroft? What are you doing here? Is everything - " Lestrade breaks off. He searches Mycroft's face for something that Mycroft refuses to concede.

"You knew that my brother was in trouble and yet you left me behind with no information whatsoever. Did you honestly think I wouldn't know what was going on? How could you leave me out of this?" He keeps his voice quiet, attempting to keep any emotion to a minimum, though he knows Geoff can hear his vulnerability, his weakness.

"Mycroft, I didn't... I didn't want you to worry without knowing all the facts - "

"I got them before you even arrived here. I already know more than anyone else here, including my brother." Mycroft interrupts hotly, though his voice is still quiet. _If you'd only waited for me we could've done this together_.

"Oh yeah I should've just asked you to take care of it, let my team take risks while I stayed in your flat. I'm their boss, Mycroft. I can't - _won't_ - let them do anything I wouldn't do myself." Lestrade hisses back, temper rising.

"Perhaps I should then leave you to your duties, Detective Inspector." Disdainfully, unwilling to show how deeply this has hurt him, Mycroft sweeps Lestrade up and down with an icy glance, then turns on his heel and re-enters his car. It immediately departs and Mycroft does not look back. It doesn't really matter what he does - Geoff knows him well enough that he'll know almost exactly what is going on inside the other man's head, but that doesn't stop Mycroft from acting his part. Geoff knows he has done damage to Mycroft, but who knows how long it will take him to apologize, if he even does. Until then -

With a low growl, Mycroft breaks off his thoughts. Sentiment. How boring.


End file.
